


you can only blame your problems on the world for so long (silver linings)

by believresneverdie (orphan_account)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blow Jobs, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Single Parents, pete is a billionaire but patrick hates him so pete pretends to be poor in order to be with him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/believresneverdie
Summary: Patrick is a single widower balancing financial problems and raising a 10-year-old by himself.Pete is a billionaire. He does what he wants, and he wants Patrick.





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick Stump hates Pete Wentz. This changes today, whether Patrick knows it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading and supporting. your view is everything, your kudos/comments are everything, your support is everything. without you guys, i couldn’t keep alive the story of a poor stepdad and his son, a reckless billionaire, and a million cups of mango-dragonfruit refreshers.

Ever since he had learned to speak, Patrick Stump had been taught that everything in life had a silver lining, and even the worst moments in life had a good side to them. Example given: when Patrick—six years old at the time—went to get a cup of pudding from the cupboard only to discover there were none left, the silver lining being that he wouldn’t have to experience a sugar crash later on from eating the pudding. He couldn’t help but wonder if Pete Wentz had any silver linings.

Patrick had met his wife Elisa when he was 20 and she was only a few months his senior. The couple got engaged young, only a few months after meeting, on the grounds that they _just knew it was meant to be._ Patrick hadn’t gone to college due to his teenage mistake of being swept up in a band that never got out of Chicago, but Elisa worked as an assistant for Pete Wentz, the cream of the crop when it came to record production in the city. Patrick had never met the man himself, but the stories his wife brought home of Wentz’s playfulness, humor, and impulsiveness only made Patrick a _little_ jealous.

Pete Wentz ended up running over Elisa Stump with his BMW on December 2nd, 2010. _He was going 90 miles an hour in a school zone, trying to kill himself,_ Patrick recalled. Because of Pete Wentz, he lost a wife that day.

Flash-forward to 2018, and Patrick is raising 9-year-old Declan on his own in the cheapest, slummiest neighborhood in Chicagoland. He takes a minute to ponder how Wentz doesn’t even have the balls to pay child support. He glances at a picture of Elisa on the fireplace mantle and sighs, pulling on an acorn-brown coat. “Declan, we have to go! Get down here, buddy,” Patrick chides, paternal instincts kicking in. “First day o’ third grade, we can’t be late!”

Declan Stump races down the stairs in a manner easily comparable to a crashing jet plane. Or a car. “Hey, dad, sorry! I couldn’t decide what to wear. Gotta make an impression!” Declan grinns wide and toothy, sporting jeans and a Rush shirt that hangs off of his body quite liberally, the hem resting baggy.

Patrick smirks, holding the door open for his son. “You’re forgettin’ something, Dec.” Always the responsible father, Patrick holds up the blue backpack for Declan to grab on his way out. “Let’s go to the car, kid.”

Patrick and Declan had long kept a tradition— each year on the first day of school, Patrick would drive his son to Starbucks (assuming Declan got up on time for once) and then to school for whichever grade he was zooming past that year. This year it’s third grade, so Declan isn't old enough for coffee and Patrick isn’t worn out enough for coffee. He orders iced green tea and croissants for the both of them, and pays while Declan comments on the music with the expertise of a Rolling Stone writer. “Dad, how come they only play post-Waters stuff on the radio? ‘Cause, like, Momentary Lapse sucks...”

Patrick does the kind of laugh where you laugh so hard you kind of just smile really wide and vibrate without noise. A good child, he has raised. After collecting himself, he answers Declan’s question with all of the pride and pretentiousness he possessed as a younger, less liked Patrick, circa his junior year. “Well, uh— Roger Waters and David Gilmour had like, this huge fight, right?” He holds back an f-bomb before ‘fight’, remembering to phrase it for ten-year-old ears. This is tricky considering that Patrick isn’t particularly used to third-graders being interested in the Floyd lawsuits. After Declan nods and rolls his eyes like he already knows that, Patrick continues. “Basically, Roger tried to sue David and said that he couldn’t legally continue the band after Roger left—“ he pulls into the car line of Declan’s elementary school—“and, uh, basically he made a big fool of himself when he lost the lawsuit, so people don’t play the good stuff he made anymore. But David’s cool too, Dec. Don’t take sides, that’s not gettin’ you anywhere. ‘Kay, you gotta go now. We’ll talk later?”

Declan shakes his head. “You’re just gonna forget. But yeah! See you later, Dad!” Declan smiles wide, grabbing his bag and running into the school before Patrick could tell him to slow down.

Patrick shuts the passenger door of his Civic as Declan leaves, and smiles somberly, beginning to talk to himself. “He’s doin’ good, babe, real good... Hope I’m doing alright without you. I just— I wanna be a good dad, y’know? It’s— It’s really hard without you, damn it...” Patrick doesn't know a thing about Post Malone or Fortnite or any of the things Declan likes, and he feels like he is beginning to push his own interests onto his son in order to bond with him. “I don’t want him to turn out like a mini-me, Elisa. I want him to grow up and be, like, the kind o’ guy that respects women and votes responsibly and stuff... I miss you so fuckin’ much, babe...” He pulls into the Starbucks parking lot and opens the car door, leaving his coat in the Civic in favor of a cross-body messenger bag. He always loved the atmosphere of coffee shops. It reminded Patrick of warmth, of home, of music. He had vivid memories of playing for a band in his late teen years in cafés like this. He sits down at a table, letting the smooth grains of wood grace his fingertips as he leans to pull out his laptop from the black messenger bag, prying open the laptop to a familiar Windows startup screen. Patrick quickly attacks the keys, entering his password with ease in order to access the same blank document he remembered.

Money was tough. He picked up jobs sometimes, usually getting fired for needing to take excessive time off to take care of Declan. Patrick had his mother loan him just enough to keep the house and buy food for the two of them, but he felt guilty for taking handouts. He felt guilty for putting Declan in this situation, for having to tell his son every day “No, you can’t get [insert popular video game].” Patrick felt responsible for Declan’s alienation from the better-off kids at school. After all, it was Patrick’s fault that Declan couldn’t afford all the cool toys or video games, and nearly all the kid’s clothes were hand-me-downs. Patrick typed furiously, with this in mind. He was going to make this résumé his _bitch_ —

“You can’t do that! You can’t fucking do that, man!” The words came from a short, tattooed man with dark, slicked-back hair, dirty clothes, and the most gorgeous honey-gold skin. Patrick guesses the man was a drug addict or maybe a music scene veteran like Patrick. Or both. The man is arguing with a barista quite vocally, raising his voice over something Patrick isn’t sure of.

The barista rolls her eyes. “Listen, dude, we just don’t serve your kind here, okay? I’m like, 19, so please just step out of line,” she drones. Patrick is fucking done. He isn’t even involved, but, _god_ , he is fired up. ‘ _We don’t serve your kind._ ’ What is this, Star Wars?

Patrick slams his laptop closed, just carefully enough as not to break the device. He turns to the barista. “He’s with me, okay? I’ll pay for him,” Patrick babbles, mouth moving faster than his brain could think of what to say as he extracts his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. The disheveled man’s wide, bright smile is worth the money. Patrick doesn’t care if this guy was homeless, or a drug addict, no matter what the norm is. He’s happy to buy a mango dragonfruit thing for a fellow poor person if it makes them as happy as Declan made him. He’s happy to share.

Patrick and the man walk together towards the park. Patrick doesn’t quite trust the guy not to steal his car, but he _does_ trust him enough to take a stroll through the city with him. “It’s good?” Patrick raises an eyebrow, referring to the drink, and the man nods vigorously.

“Delicious, dude.. Gonna have to bring my kid here someday to get one,” he replies cheerily. “Thanks for the drink, by the way. Sorry I caused such an outburst while you were writing your book,” he apologizes, scratching his neck with his free hand.

Patrick laughs. “It’s fine, dude. Also, uh, not a book, actually. More like a résumé,” he points out, “I’m, uh— I’m a single dad, you know? Lookin’ for a job.”

The dark-haired man nods mid-sip. “‘Ey, it’s alright. I get that, my wife left me a few years back as well. Did she tell you you were a bad dad too?” He has finished the fuchsia-tinted drink and has begun attempting to pry out the blackberries at the bottom of the cup with a paper straw. A blackberry falls to the concrete and he picks it up, eating it regardless. _Spare no expense_ , Patrick supposes. He shook his head.

“No. She got run over. They say it was involuntary manslaughter, but the guy was her boss. He was a fucking goth piece of shit, too,” Patrick spits, “Deserves a life in prison for the shit he did to me and my kid.”

Patrick doesn’t notice the man gulp. “What was the guy’s name?”

Patrick grits his teeth. “Pete fucking Wentz. I’m Patrick Stump, and my wife is fucking dead, and if I was a little less sane than I am right now, I’d walk over to his office and punch him square in the jaw.” He punches the air as if to demonstrate how he would punch Wentz if he saw him. “Oh, what’s your name, dude? Totally forgot,” Patrick drops his violent demeanor quickly, trading a scowl for a sweet, boy-next-door smile.

“Lewis,” he says after a pause, “Lewis Kingston. Nice to meet you, Patrick. Why don’t we talk about this guy together?”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick and Lewis get a little better acquainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading and supporting. your view is everything, your kudos/comments are everything, your support is everything. without you guys, i couldn’t keep alive the story of a poor stepdad and his son, a reckless billionaire, and a million cups of mango-dragonfruit refreshers.

Patrick learnt a lot about Lewis on their stroll through the city. Lewis was an artist, a creator; he wrote poetry and played bass. He worked a low-level sanitation job at Decaydance Records and told Patrick extravagant stories of Wentz and his ridiculous marketing campaigns (the one about the blow-up doll made Patrick giggle, to his dismay). Lewis had a son, Bronx, who was Declan’s age. Learning this excited Patrick, and he offered to have Lewis and Bronx over for dinner one night. Lewis accepted, tossing the now-empty Starbucks cup into a trash can. “So, uh, I know you got, like, totally blue balled by my boss, but, uh, you think we can be friends? You’re good at— You’re good at walking,” Lewis blurted, making Patrick go red.

“Of— Of course, Lewis. It’s really nice to meet you, dude. Nice to have a new friend, especially a fellow dad. I, uh, actually have a question though,” Patrick murmured, massaging the naps of his neck as they walked past a group of intimidating, tattoo-clad college students. After Lewis nodded, Patrick continued nonchalantly. “Uh, what was the deal with the barista back there? I mean, like, if you’re comfortable answering, like, you don’t have to discuss it if it’s too personal...”

Lewis shook his head, retrieving a piece of spearmint chewing gum from his jean pocket and popping it into his mouth after removing the wrapper. “‘S no problem, man. Just, uh, y’know.. I don’t have a lot o’ clean clothes at home, ‘cause I’m not home a lot. Mostly just live in my work uniform, y’know?” Lewis was chewing vigorously now, and Patrick nodded.

“You’re lucky to have a job in these times, dude. Have to get donations from my mom just to get by,” Patrick mumbled, embarrassed to admit it even to another lower-class person.

Patrick’s eyes went wide as Lewis fumbled through his pocket, pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar-bills, and rested them in Patrick’s palm. “I’m a little more well-off than you think I am, Patrick. Don’t argue, just take the money. My treat in exchange for your company, plus you seem like a good man,” Lewis whispered, reminiscent of an action hero trying not to get caught, even if Patrick didn’t see a problem with him doing this. It wasn’t illegal to give other people money, was it?

Patrick whispered a ‘thank you’, and he meant it. He still felt guilty taking the money, but it felt nice to know his new friend cared about his situation.

“What’s your kid’s name? What’s he like?” Lewis’ somber expression melted away, leaving a wide, happy smile and bright eyes in its wake. Patrick admitted that Lewis was attractive without a doubt, and Patrick found himself only a little bit jealous of the man’s high cheekbones and chiseled biceps.

“His name’s Declan, looks just like me when I was younger. He loves classic rock, I really think he’s gonna be a musician when he grows up. Gonna change the world and all that jazz. I just hope he doesn’t get bullied, y’know? Has a taste beyond his years, I think,” Patrick noted. “His mom would be so proud, dude. I think I’m doin’ alright...”

Lewis nodded furiously. “I can see right through people, Patrick. You seem like an amazing man and an even better father. I’m sure he’s a good kid, dude.” Patrick appreciated that about Lewis, despite just meeting him a few hours ago. Lewis seemed to be generous and empathetic, if not a little over-affectionate and defensive of pop music to the grave. Patrick liked that in a friend— someone who would be there as a shoulder to cry on, but wasn’t a pushover. “Hey, sorry, Patrick, but, uh— this is me,” Lewis gestured to the bus stop they had just approached. He pulled a small slip of paper out of his jeans, slipping it into Patrick’s pocket. “That’s my phone number, right? Call me, text me, whatever. Anytime, man. See you around.”

And with that, Lewis disappeared onto the newly-arrived bus, and Patrick was alone once again. For the entire duration of the trek back to his car, Patrick thought about his new friend, and how wonderful the meeting had been. Lewis was a brand-new silver lining.

——————————

Patrick texted Lewis when he got home.

[2:34 PM] Hey  
[2:34 PM] It’s Patrick? We walked together today

He sighed and set the phone down on a nearby table. Patrick had done all the good dad stuff. He had made the cookies and set them out for Declan, signed all the permission forms, paid the just-overdue water bill, and put Lewis’ generous donation into his own bank account (‘Generous’ wasn’t an overstatement, either. When Patrick totaled up the deposit amount, it rang up to exactly 1,405.34 United States Dollars). Now, Patrick felt he deserved a break just for being a good dad.

His Android vibrated, coming dangerously close to the edge of the table. He caught it just before it fell.

[2:37 PM] _hey patrick. it’s pete_

Patrick paused, confused.

[2:37 PM] _pressed enter too soon sorry._  
[2:38 PM] _it’s pete’s personal bitch, lewis_

Confusion gone. He exhaled, relieved. Patrick reassured himself that he didn’t think it would be Pete anyways, like, why would Lewis give him the wrong number?

[2:39 PM] _is declan home yet?_

Patrick’s fingers traveled across the keys quickly, and he felt pathetic for being so excited. He had only met Lewis today.

[2:40 PM] He just got home I think.  
[2:40 PM] But I don’t want to check because I’m so tired. I’m father-ed out.

That was a lie. Patrick _was_ tired, but he’d check on Declan no matter what. He set his phone down and ran to the door, picking up his son into a bear hug. “Hey, Dec!!” Patrick set his son down and began to take deep breaths. The simplest movements were a struggle: the true asthma experience. “How are you, kid? Was school worse than last year?”

His son smiled cheerfully. “One of my teachers is really mean to me. Maybe I’m just too cool for her,” Declan shrugged, and Patrick was proud. He didn’t raise a pessimist. “Dad, I’m gonna go play Fortnite, can you come watch?”

The defining moment in any dad’s (or mom’s) parenting career is this moment. Every child has something that they want the parent to watch, and no matter what the thing is, it’s usually a boring waste of time. But like Elisa always told Patrick, if you don’t allow your child to express themselves regarding the things they’re interested in around you, they won’t want to talk about it to anyone out of fear that the interest is stupid or bad. Patrick wasn’t a video-game guy, but he wanted to support his son. Thus, “Sure! I’ll bring some cookies, get it ready and I’ll be upstairs in a few.”

Declan was already deep into the game when Patrick arrived upstairs. It looked fun, lots of vibrant colors and silly things to do in the game. Patrick watched Declan chase someone around for a while, then pulled out his phone to check if Lewis had responded. He was met with a wall of text.

[3:10 PM] _i gotcha_  
[3:10 PM] _hey do you think hot dogs could survive in the wild? question from my kid_  
[3:11 PM] _also how would you describe your hair color? it’s another question from my kid._  
[3:11 PM] _also what is your opinion on macaroni and cheese_

Patrick hesitated, then began to type.

[3:13 PM] Hot dogs could survive in the wild.  
[3:13 PM] As a result of years of cross- and selective-breeding, hot dogs have developed many physical traits and adaptations to help them survive, such as protective casing and ability to posthumously deteriorate the human body after years of hot dog consumption. They can kill a human, but they’ll do it silent and deadly. Sneak up on you.

[3:15 PM] I think my hair is dirty blonde, but Elisa always said cinnamon color  
[3:15 PM] Macaroni is good. What, are you planning to invite me over for dinner?

[3:16 PM] _not at my place. it’s really run-down. bronx suggested macaroni grill tho_

[3:17 PM] Sounds great! What time?

[3:17 PM] _be there at 5:30, stud. ;)_

[3:18 PM] Haha very funny. C u there.

Patrick put down his phone, satisfied. “Hey, Dec, we got dinner with some of my friends tonight. Does Italian sound good?”

——————————

Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III was in trouble. He was cat-fishing a good man. An angry, unnaturally attractive good man, but a good man nonetheless. He had exploited said good man for a mango-blackberry-dragonfruit refresher, and he was about to go on a dinner date with the guy, and this was getting out of control. It was only September, and Pete was already going to have to change his name and move to Saskatchewan. He tightened his tie and slicked back his hair, patting Bronx on the head. “Y’ look good, buddy,” he sighed. “Remember, these guys are nice, but it’s important that you tell them our last name is Kingston, okay?”

Bronx nodded halfheartedly and turned to leave for the car. “You need to stop getting into so much trouble, dad... I’m worried about you.” He exited, leaving Pete alone with his thoughts. A dangerous move.

——————————

Patrick and Declan found Lewis and Bronx exactly where they said they’d be. They looked good together, matching smiles painted across their faces. They were more of a positive contrast to each other rather than Patrick and his son’s bland sameness.

Lewis greeted the two, and Patrick smiled while Declan fell silent. He never was good around other kids. It made Patrick feel bad, but he didn’t want to force his son to talk to anyone he didn’t want to.

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” Declan whispered, quiet as a mouse.

Lewis nodded, grinning wide. “Thank _you_ for coming, good sir,” he remarked in a bad, plummy English accent that made Declan giggle. Once the food had arrived, they all ate cheerily, exchanging stories and jokes.

At the end of the meal, Patrick pulled Lewis aside. “I, uh— Oh, god,” Patrick giggled, “I’m really drunk, this is embarrassing, but, like, I need— I need you to take us home I’m sorry,” he blurted loudly.

Lewis gasped. “Hey, uh, don’t worry, okay? I’m here, let’s just— I’m gonna take you home, let’s go, okay?” He gestured for the kids to follow behind him, and led the pack while Declan and Bronx trailed behind to talk about something neither Lewis or Patrick understood. Lewis guided Patrick to the car and took the other man’s keys. “Gonna take care of you, Patrick, okay?” Patrick nodded, half-asleep. The last thing he felt before passing out was Lewis’ soft hands brushing his chest.

——————————

Patrick awoke to Lewis.

The other man was shirtless, and gasped when he realized Patrick was awake. “Hey— Hey, how are you? Feeling better?” Lewis smiled, genuine concern apparent in his husky voice.

Patrick sat up and groaned, drinking down the glass of water and Tylenol that had been left on the nightstand. “I’m sorry, god— I’m so embarrassed, I don’t know what I was thinking,” Patrick croaked, throat sore.

Lewis nodded sympathetically. “It’s okay, dude. Ash— my, uh, ex-wife —has Bronx. She took him to school, and, uh, Declan took the bus. He got on there okay, I made sure of it. He’s sitting with a very close confidant of mine, so you can be sure he’s safe. I would have driven him, but, uh- I— I wanted to stay with you,” Lewis’ voice was high and sweet in a boyish way, but it somehow fit his rugged appearance. Patrick wasn’t sure how. He stared at a particularly interesting curl of dark ink near Lewis’ wrist, trying to make out the shape, until Lewis made the job easier and leaned over, exposing the image. “It’s, uh, from a Japanese movie,” he explained. “Howl’s Moving Castle. Basically, this young girl gets turned, like, really old, and she meets this guy and he just— He really rocks her world, dude.. And he helps her get young again.” Lewis pulled his lips into a smile, but it looked forced. “It’s, uh— I got it for Bronx. I think I felt really old and worn out until we had him, y’know?” Lewis paused after Patrick nodded. “Do you have any tats?”

Patrick shook his head. “Was going to, when I was like, 17... But, like, I’m double that now and I don’t think I have the physique or the imagination for tattoos. Plus, I— I couldn’t, not without her, you know?”

Lewis’ smile faded into a look of concern and sorrow. “Yeah. I think I know what you mean...” He bit his lip. “What was she like?”

Patrick pulled the comforter closer to his chest and closed his eyes to think. “She was beautiful. Gorgeous, okay? And smart. Methodical and calm when I got angry or upset over stupid shit.” He took a deep breath, voice wavering. “She always used to say that the only thing she loved more than music was being with me and Declan. She— He was only two when she died, he can- he can barely remember her, Lewis... He doesn’t even remember her and that hurts because when I’m gone, nobody’s gonna know how wonderful she was. Nobody.” Patrick felt his lips quiver as he sobbed into his palms over everything he had lost. A wife, a career, a perfect family, a chance at being a good dad. He had lost all of it.

Lewis wiped Patrick’s tears with the soft down comforter, rubbing his back as well. “It’s alright, ‘Trick. It’s alright to miss her, okay?” Lewis looked like he was about to cry as well. “Patrick, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

As soon as Patrick saw Lewis leave, he burst into a round of screaming wails for the three most important people in his life: Elisa, who he had lost; Declan, who would never remember his mother; Lewis, who, although Patrick didn’t realize, was much more involved in this than Patrick would ever know. He cried until he couldn’t cry anymore, and he grasped his pillow until he fell softly asleep, free from the thoughts he had while conscious.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick and Lewis almost come together (in more ways than one).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeey!!! i was originally gonna make this chapter ~7500 words but i don’t have the patience, plus i see FOB today so i thought i’d celebrate with this :>

Patrick sobbed until lunchtime, loud and shaky. He cried until he got the impression that he wouldn’t ever be able to cry again, and then of course he wept some more. He bought a sushi platter from the grocery store for himself, and ate it in front of the TV, paired with a warm mug of steamy green tea. Live PD raged on in the background as Patrick slid the cool weight of his wedding band from his left ring finger and closed his fist around it as if the tighter he squeezed the ring, the less it would hurt to be alone.

On the television screen, two police officers were breaking up a stupid fight between a petty couple. Patrick rolled his eyes. The blankets around Patrick hugged the pale valley of his naked body, because, fuck it, nobody’s watching. He could do whatever he wanted.

Patrick finally sat up a little straighter, propping up his back with pillows as he slowly moved a hand from his ring to his cock, setting down the metal band on a nearby table. He fucked into his hand in careful, slow motions to distract himself from the ever-flowing tears in his eyes. Rose-pink lips opened around a low moan, and Patrick groaned in surprise as images of Lewis came to mind. Lewis and his stupid face, his stupid hair and that stupid jacket he kept wearing. He felt himself buck forward into the wall of blankets, and the guilt sunk in, because he was _getting himself off on the couch to his new friend and maybe if he wasn’t such a fucking loser, he wouldn’t have to do it himself._ Patrick pushed the thoughts away, replacing them with The American Dream—also known as “wall-to-wall tits and red-blooded straight sex”—until he came in his hand and felt himself grow soft in his palm.

Patrick stumbled to the bathroom and quickly slammed the door shut despite knowing he was there alone. He soaked his white-streaked palms in the bathroom sink, wringing them out onto a baby-blue towel that would likely stain. He panted, wiping sweat from his forehead and examining himself in the mirror, self-consciously covering his gut and crotch with his left arm. He turned away, discontent with his looks, and dug through the nearby hamper for something he could wear. He selected a simple black Green Day shirt for the nostalgia, along with a dark pair of jeans. Patrick opened the bathroom door and wrote a quick, scribbled note on the door.

_Declan,_   
_I’m not feeling too good right now. Grandma’s here to watch you, but I’ll be home later. Do your homework before anything else. Love you_

He felt like a cheat. It wasn’t fair to leave his son just so he could sort out his own goddamn mental baggage. It wasn’t fair to Elisa that he was _betraying her_ after all she had done for him. Guiltily, Patrick taped the note to his front door and reached for his guitar case, slinging it off his shoulder with one strap. He called his mother to tell her he needed a babysitter, and left, wedding ring long discarded in the living room.

——————————

Patrick sang loud that night, picturing his voice as a searchlight. Maybe if someone heard him, they’d find him and know what he needed to hear. An ‘I love you’ would be nice to hear every once in a while, . With every brush of his fingers against the strings, Patrick felt himself float. Music did that to him, and he wasn’t quite sure yet if the heart-racing, bone-tingling lust for a song was normal, or just a Patrick thing. He leaned away from the microphone to yawn in between songs, taking a slow sip of the ice-cold beer handed to him. Patrick licked his lips, and he felt like a washed-up rock star: old, ugly, and forgotten about, doing gigs at bars for kicks. The gentle applause of the audience was the only thing keeping him going. He wondered if people would go home and talk about his performance. Probably not, but it would be nice to hear.

He set down his glass and let his voice echo over the small crowd. “Yeah, uh— This is, this is a new one, okay? Not— Not perfect yet, but—“ He had a small heart attack as he saw Lewis walk into the bar with a smile, and made a bad decision. “This one’s dedicated to Lewis Kingston.” Patrick’s cheeks blushed cherry-red as he saw some of Lewis’ friends guffaw rudely, but he played the opening chords all the same, serving as quotation marks to his declaration.

He caught sight of a scrawny, handsome man hanging off of Lewis’ arm and bared his teeth throughout the chorus. Like a threat, Patrick hissed the words out, pretending not to stare at Lewis throughout the song. He wanted to tattoo the words into Lewis’ skin like a promise: “ _Where is your man tonight? / I hope he is a gentleman / Maybe he won’t find out what I know / you were the last good thing / about this part of town..._ ”

Patrick was soaked with sweat when Lewis came up with some of his friends to compliment his performance. Blushing, he thanked them for coming. He kept an eye on the one he had noticed earlier, listening carefully for a name, an address, _anything_. His heart stopped when Lewis grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, into a kiss that made Patrick feel like he was melting into the floor. “You did _amazing_ ,” Lewis raved. “I can’t believe you wrote a song, like, for me! Can you— Can you come home with me tonight? Like, are you doing anything?”

Patrick felt the tell-all twinge in his briefs and nodded, shamefully taking Lewis’ hand to follow him home. He ignored the corrosive laughs of those around the pair, and silently trudged out of the bar with his friend (could he still call Lewis his friend?)

It wasn’t like Patrick didn’t want this, because _oh god_ he did. He wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t tug himself off to the thought of Lewis only hours before, but thoughts of his wife came to mind. He hadn’t done anything like this since her, not with someone else. Patrick didn’t think anyone other than her would ever want him like that, much less Lewis. _Lewis_ , the handsome, charismatic man shrouded in mystery that Patrick had met not even a week ago. Did that mean the man walking next to him was his soulmate? Or was Lewis simply just another one-night stand good at making promises and bad at going through with them? Patrick had sex on his mind and a freshly-purchased condom package in his hand as the elevator moved up, up, up.

It was a nice apartment complex. Like, unusually nice for someone of Lewis’ financial status. Patrick assumed that the apartment could belong to a friend of Lewis who wasn’t home, or perhaps the infamous Pete Wentz, _el jefe_ from Hell, supplied all his low-level employees with top-quality apartments. Patrick laughed at the thought. Perhaps he could get a job at Decaydance and enchant the pants off of Wentz. Then he’d probably kill the guy. Patrick wasn’t a killer, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. But he’d do anything for his family, including murder. He knew in his heart that Elisa would want him to avenge her, that he shouldn’t be standing around when he could be getting his revenge.

The elevator stopped on the top floor, and Patrick followed Lewis into the penthouse apartment. The walls were a gold-beige accented by lace-laden wallpaper, and Patrick took note of the upscale furniture in the room. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but quickly lost his train of thought as Lewis began stroking Patrick’s covered crotch. He gasped and his leg twitched sharply under the touch.

Lewis walked behind Patrick and grabbed the blonde by the shoulders. He shoved him, pushing the other man down on the bed, stomach-down. Lewis clucked his tongue in satisfaction, smirking. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. Anyone ever tell you that?” When Patrick shook his head, Lewis frowned. “That’s not fair,” he said. After a pause, he carded through Patrick’s hair and began to whisper in the younger man’s ear. “I’m gonna make you feel gorgeous, ‘kay?”

Patrick moaned in response, anguished by the pressure of his trapped heat in his jeans. “I want you... Lewis, I want you,” Patrick whined, rolling over onto his back. His face was red and his lips were stretched into a frown. Patrick felt himself jerk forward, fuck-hungry, and whimpered, ready to claw at his jeans if Lewis wasn’t going to take them off.

Their almost-fuck was interrupted by the tall man from earlier entering the room. “Pete?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m evil


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The building is enormous, and Patrick takes deep breaths as he breathily sprints to the elevator in pursuit of Pete. He feels like a modern-day Cinderella chasing after his prince with a pocket knife and a vengeance plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gigantic thank you to my readers for continuing to support this. reminder that i’m still in a bad financial situation and commissions are standing at a dollar for 100 words. you can contact me about commissions through my e-mail atheiavorsik@gmail.com

Patrick spends the rest of the week in an emotional safe with the key long discarded. He doesn’t answer Lewis’— _Pete’s_ —calls, texts, or voicemails, because _what the fuck_. Pete had betrayed Patrick, and Patrick had betrayed his wife, once by falling in love with someone else, and twice by falling in love with _her killer_. That isn’t something you’d do again after the first time.

Days are spent showering and letting his insides marinate in dark, strong alcohol. He doesn’t shave or eat or sleep, because _what’s the point?_ Patrick feels used and weaker than ever, and if it weren’t for his mandatory “career” taking care of Declan, he would likely be dead by now. He let his son walk to school while he took numerous showers to wash off that ever-present filth that doesn’t seem to want to leave. He vividly remembers drunkenly blabbering to Declan about not being able to trust anyone over a warm bowl of Velveeta, and the memory doesn’t make him feel any better. It isn’t the kind of drunk experience that you regret then and laugh at later, because Patrick is a bad father, and Declan deserves so much better than him.

Patrick finds out through a celebrity gossip tabloid that the man hanging off Pete’s shoulder from the bar—and eventually, the hotel room—is Pete’s _boyfriend_. Aaron, some hotshot singer who is undoubtedly more attractive than Patrick and surely a thousand times better in every way. Patrick isn’t sure why Pete would rather have an overweight, ugly single father with a revenge scheme. He is just another one of Pete’s little whores, he supposes. _The one who got away_ , he thinks, more satisfied with having that title than with being the butt of party jokes told by Wentz and having himself known as the idiot who believed his stupid fucking lies. Patrick can’t believe he had actually fallen for it, too! The ‘pressing enter too soon’ thing? Did Patrick come off as that much of a dumbass?

Declan had left for school, and Patrick is standing on the edge of the tallest building he knew. He isn’t going to kill himself. At least, not yet. And not like this. He had proposed to Elisa on this roof, a quick and nervous gesture after an adventure through the city. He remembers the weightless feeling of flowers blooming in his heart when she said yes. Patrick is wearing his wedding band again, as if to prove his undying loyalty to Elisa’s spirit. He isn’t going to fall in love again. Not after Pete. He wonders if Elisa was laughing at him right now. He deserves it.

Patrick begins to wonder if he is going crazy, because at his core he wants to forgive Pete. Maybe he was just a good man in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe Patrick is the bad guy for yelling and leaving. Maybe he should have stayed the night just for the sex. He wonders if he was really such an easy lay. Do billionaires have a sensor in their brains to know who the gullible idiots were in any given crowd? The ones who would quickly come in their pants at just the thought of sex with Pete Wentz? Patrick wonders if he was really so good at sex in the first place. He brushes his fingers over the flat metallic surface of the thin knife in his coat pocket. Wentz would die today by Patrick’s hands.

[10:33 AM] Wentz.  
[10:33 AM] I’m sorry for yelling at you.  
[10:34 AM] But i want you to fuck me senseless. Think of it as a science project  
[10:34 AM] Or a way to make it up to me

Patrick bites at the corners of his mouth nervously, beginning to walk down from the roof and in the general direction of the apartment building where he last met Pete.

[10:35 AM] _miss me already? you weren’t answering your phone_

Patrick rolls his eyes. Did this guy really not realize the consequences of his actions? He quickly taps a response before shoving his phone in his coat pocket.

[10:35 AM] Yeah well you kind of ran over my wife and lied to me and cheated on your boyfriend (who I didn’t even know about) with me and used me for a mango Starbucks thing  
[10:35 AM] If ur not gonna fuck me then I’ll find someone who will :/

[10:36 AM] _omg urr such a slut rick_  
[10:36 AM] _didn’t kno u were so dirty d:_  
[10:36 AM] _u know where 2 go. i have condoms/lube. c u_

[10:36 AM] What about your boyfriend?

[10:37 AM] _he left me but its ok. i didnt like him that much nyway_  
[10:37 AM] _he used to steal my meds and stuff._  
[10:37 AM] _i like u better. ur soft like a pillow. and tight af_

Patrick blushes bright red and gnaws away at his top lip nervously, because _Pete Wentz thinks he’s tight_. He doesn’t know or bother to find out if that’s a casual compliment, like, “Woah, that’s tight, dude!” or a gay thing, like, assholes and butts and stuff. Patrick isn’t sure if he’s gay. He’s pretty sure he felt attracted to Elisa, was all of that a lie? Patrick shakes his head, tossing the question aside. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets, once again fondling the sharp pocket knife, and furrows his brow, heading to the address of the infamous apartment complex where he _almost_ got laid. The wind gusts, blowing Patrick’s coat from side to side as he nods at passersby and finally reaches the complex.

The building is enormous, and Patrick takes deep breaths as he breathily sprints to the elevator in pursuit of Pete. He feels like a modern-day Cinderella chasing after his prince with a pocket knife and a vengeance plot.

Pete is damp with water and wearing nothing when Patrick knocks on the door.

“Hey, sugarplum,” the dark-haired man coos slyly. “Y’ wanna come in?” Pete’s coy vixen eyes narrow in on Patrick to examine him, reminiscent of a shooter with a sniper rifle or perhaps a doctor checking for cancer. Patrick strokes the knife in his pocket and holds back a wince as the sharp edge grazes the very tip of his index finger. Pete doesn’t notice.

Patrick cautiously lets himself in, tuning out Pete’s dirty-talk (which has more in common with how a mother would speak to her newborn than with how someone would normally go about seducing someone into bed with them) and surveying his surroundings.

The doorway guarded the entrance, parallel to crystal-clear, ceiling-length windows. Patrick could push Pete through them now, while the other has his guard down, and nobody would even have to dust for fingerprints. The guy was already depressed, if what he said about Elisa’s death was true. It wouldn’t be hard to frame it as a suicide and forget about it.

Patrick feels the tiniest twinge of guilt over the planning of Wentz’s death, because _that’s a human person,_ but so was Elisa. The love of Patrick’s life, the lone olive tree in his empty valley, the dove perched on the smokestack of his desolate factory, the canary to his coal mine. Patrick knows what he’s doing, and he’d gladly go through with it for his son. But is he having second thoughts?

They are both sat firmly on the couch and Pete is caressing Patrick’s clothed thigh with the rhythm of a drummer, the precision of a brain surgeon, and Patrick feels a traitorous tent in his pants at the contact, only it’s _not his fault because it’s been years now, okay?_

Unzipping. The reverberation fills the room and a Patrick curses himself for wanting this. Jeans fall to expose alabaster thighs and traditional white briefs, the latter of the two serving as yet another bothersome barrier between Pete’s gentle touch and Patrick’s aching core.

Patrick feels himself squirm with desire, wanton moans ready to leap off of his tongue as he anticipates the moment of truth, the point where Pete undoes him and makes up for everything he’s done to Patrick and his family. Patrick thinks of Declan and the mother his son will never meet, and how heartbreakingly similar this was to encounters with her, but for once in his life he pushes the thoughts far away into the corners of his mind, because _Elisa isn’t coming back, and she would want you to move on and fall in love again._

Pete whispers terms of endearment at rapid-fire pacing as he pulls away Patrick’s briefs like the wrapping on an expensive Christmas gift and Patrick grunts as his cock springs to his chest: an embarrassing display of his blatant arousal. “What do you want, doll?” Pete’s comforting tone as his hand caresses Patrick’s cheek is tempting, resulting in a quick twitch from the younger.

“I want you,” Patrick confesses, throwing his life away in exchange for Pete Wentz, the gentle ray of sunshine who Patrick was never even supposed to fall in love with. “I want you, Pete... It’s better for us—for our kids— if we leave everything behind us and—“ Patrick shudders as Pete brushes a calloused hand over his lust-gorged prick. “—and get together.. You— You have to promise me—” another loud groan, because Patrick was _exceptionally_ vocal this morning—“Promise me I’m not a one-night stand for you. This is your last fuckin’ chance, because I’m horny as hell and my son needs another parent, okay?” Patrick grits his teeth as Pete swiftly jerks him off. “One more fuck-up and I might actually use this,” he said, pulling out the knife he had stored in his coat a little too confidently in comparison to his shaky speech.

A loud snort echoes through the room and Pete raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t go through with it, Stump. Not in a million years,” Pete laughs, smoky and sexy as his grip on Patrick’s heat tightens. “We’re gonna do this my way, baby, a’ight? You’re gonna be fuckin’ boneless by the end of it,” he remarks confidently, paired with his trademark grin.

Patrick’s moans and cries for _more, please, more_ fill the room like a symphony as Pete takes off Patrick’s coat and shirt, setting the knife aside and pressing his warm chest to Patrick’s back. Patrick tilts his head ever-so-slightly to lick a hot stripe over his partner’s inked collarbone, carefully tracing his way over the distinct pattern of a barbed-wire necklace. Pete emits a low moan, and Patrick emerges victoriously satisfied.

The blond scrapes precise marks down Pete’s neck, smiling almost evilly as Pete reaches that sweet spot near the base of his cock. “Right there, oh _god_ —“ Patrick cries, clutching fistfuls of his hair, hat long abandoned by now. He looks and feels like a mess, but he’s a touch-starved, hungry, writhing mess and he’s nothing if not craving Pete more than anything in the world right now.

Pete smacks the soft curve of Patrick’s bare ass, clucking his tongue in satisfaction. “So fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters, humping Patrick vivaciously from behind as he clutches the younger man’s cock and slides a hand along the shaft.

Patrick feels somewhat like a hybrid of a sex toy and a pony on the merry-go-round from all this spanking and humping and riding nonsense, but it feels amazing. He wants to capture the feeling in a bottle and drink it up whenever he’s feeling down, because _Pete Wentz is a sex god_ , and Patrick can never go back. He screams out Pete’s name, and almost instantly feels a buck in his hips as his thighs begin to shake. Patrick looks back at Pete as if to telepathically let him know that he _needs to come_ , but Pete shakes his head.

“Don’t come before me,” Pete nags, his voice solemn and dark as night. Patrick nods, on edge and shaking, struggling to contain his orgasm as Pete continues touching him. The tanned man finally climaxes with a shriek of Patrick’s name, and Patrick comes along with him, melting into a boneless pile in the sheets.

“Was I better than her?” Pete inquires.

“You could never replace her,” he starts, but hesitates before continuing. “My best,” Patrick babbles sweetly, curling his lips into a wide smile and leaning back against his beloved. “I can’t believe I was going to kill you,” he laughs, carding through Pete’s oily hair with a free hand. “I wanna stay here with you. For a while.”

Pete avoids Patrick’s glance. “I’m sorry for killing your wife,” he whispers, quiet as a mouse and solemn as the grieving wind. “I wish I could take back that night. I wish I could’ve prevented myself from it,” he winces, voice starting to break as tears cover his dark russet eyes but refuse to fall.

Patrick is by Pete’s side now, gently caressing the other’s arm with a baby-soft hand and whispering sweet comfort. “The past is in the past, and that’s a grudge I held for far too long in my grief... The only thing you can do to make it better is to treat my son right and never kill anyone I love ever again,” Patrick demands. “And never lie to me again,” he corrects, matter-of-factly. “Because, like, Lewis is a fucking terrible name,” Patrick guffaws, losing his seriousness as he laughs with his body and falls on the floor, naked.

Pete grabs Patrick’s forearm and lifts him back onto the bed, laughing with him. “It kinda is, right? It’s my middle name,” Pete giggles. “But, uh, yeah. Agreed, baby. Welcome to the ‘Pete’s dick’ club.”

Patrick can’t shake the simultaneous feelings of happiness and despair as he kisses Pete hard. Their lips collide and Patrick gets that terrible feeling low in his stomach, because _he’s a cheat, cheat, cheat._ He falls victim to sleep next to his love, but the feeling stays with him until he wakes.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick falls down the rabbit hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! my beta went AWOL, so i had to edit this one all by myself. just like old times. if you’d like to volunteer to beta this work and my others, plz drop me an e-mail: atheiavorsik@gmail.com. on with the dad angst

The day that Declan Stump officially meets Pete Wentz, the nine-year-old draws a picture on a scrap piece of paper lying around the house.

Artistically, the picture really isn’t anything to brag about, but the subject matter and sentimental value is what brings that special shimmer to Patrick’s heart and soul, a feeling of completeness that hasn’t been there since Elisa’s death.

The drawing in question happens to be of four people holding hands, and the whole bunch would be identical if not for the unmistakable resemblances to the people in Declan’s life: one man dons a hat low on his head, just high enough to expose his wide smile. Another is labeled with an arrow and ‘ME’, while the boy next to ‘ME’ sports a misshapen video game controller and a smile similar to the first. The final figure is ridiculously tall in comparison to the others, surrounded by huge pink hearts, using a gargantuan “3”-shaped mouth to plant a big smooch onto the hat of the first figure. The picture is labeled “MY FAMLY”, and it’s the fourth most important thing in Patrick’s life, trailing closely behind Bronx, Declan, and _Pete fucking Wentz_.

He wakes to the scent of maple, the loud laughter of his son, and the texture of Pete’s warm, rough skin. Add to that list a feeling of relief, because it is Saturday morning and Patrick loves his family.

“Time to get up, honey,” Pete chides gently, patting the smooth valley of his boyfriend’s hair. Patrick wants to beg (for more time to sleep, or for more of _last night_ , he doesn’t know), but he eventually gives in with a soft grunt and a sleepy kiss to Pete’s forehead, kicking his legs to the side of the bed and half-scooting-half-rolling out. He covers himself with the thick comforter and pulls Pete’s shirt over his head, far too small for Patrick as it accentuates his gut and rides up just enough to show curious traces of dark hair below his navel. He scoffs at the size difference, frustrated, but pulls on a warm bathrobe to cover up rather than get a new shirt.

The expensive blender whirs smoothly, serving as the critically-acclaimed soundtrack to Bronx’s Fortnite ramblings and Pete’s trademark move of hanging off Patrick’s shoulders like a baby koala. Patrick hums joyfully at the touch, only moving to open the blender lid and pour the purple fruit concoction into a glass. Apparently, one a day for 3 months is supposed to make Patrick some sort of buff sex god, so he’s pretty much willing to take his chances. “You guys,” Patrick smirks between sips, leaning back against the counter, “When I’m thin, you’re all gonna worship me. I’m gonna be, like, the coolest dad ever.”

Pete frowns and nuzzles his boyfriend’s neck, marking his territory. “You’re _already_ the coolest dad, babe. We’re the coolest dads by default, because they get two,” he explains, briefly cocking his head towards the kids. “Bronx, have you ever met a kid with two dads? Isn’t that, like, really cool?”

Bronx hesitates and shrugs, “I don’t think so. Also, _he_ —“ he gestures towards Patrick with, “—is not my dad. At least, not yet. He’s not replacing mom,” Bronx protests. A police siren goes off in Patrick’s head, loud and blaring because _Patrick isn’t wanted here_ , but Pete saves the day with his paternal skills.

“You do what I say, young man, and I say you should be nice to Patrick, because I ‘wuv’ him.” After a moment of tension, the whole kitchen bursts into laughter. Pete takes particular notice of how Patrick laughs, especially the way he doubles over with laughter, clutching his stomach and kicking his legs. Pete’s never seen someone lose himself so easily. He can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not, but he pecks at Patrick’s neck regardless.

Patrick wants to melt under the touch, wants to lick it up and drink it down and savor it and bathe in it, but alas, the pain children are watching. He forces himself to giggle and push his boyfriend away, all while contemplating what could have come from that little kiss. “Okay, boys,” he chirps happily, “finish your breakfasts and get dressed, we’re goin’ shopping!” He adds a little grin as he trots out of the kitchen to find something suitable.

Pete and Patrick had discussed this day for quite a while now, selecting this particular Saturday morning to let the kids browse the mall while they debuted their relationship to the paparazzi. They figured it would have to happen at some point, and as long as the kids weren’t around to be forced into the charade, Patrick didn’t mind the attention much. Maybe he’d sing for the cameras if they asked politely, just to prove that he had even a _sliver_ of talent, to prove that he was worthy of Pete.

The walk to the closet makes Patrick’s heart want to pound through his chest and lay on the floor in front of him. He picks a navy blue shirt, breathing deeply and concentrating as if he could make the outfit look better on him with a little bit of time and focus. Pete’s three careful knocks on the bedroom door are what encourages Patrick to finally complete getting dressed, and he pulls up a pair of off-white shorts to greet his partner.

To Patrick’s surprise, Pete is already dressed when he opens the door. “Hey, babe,” Pete smiles, “Got dressed in the bathroom.”

That last sentence is the kicker, because Pete looks like he was dressed in a professional salon. His oily black hair is slicked back in a respectable style, and he dons a crisp pink suit that puts Patrick’s ensemble to shame. “You look great,” Pete gasps, looking down at Patrick’s shorts, accented by cheap flip-flops. The younger man looks ready for a family day at the beach in harsh comparison to Pete, the latter looking ready to propose. The analogy makes Patrick’s heart float and body want to swoon into Pete’s arms. Single stepdad life isn’t as old and tired as one would think, because Patrick feels more like a teenager every day he spends with Pete. Such is bliss.

When he blushes, Patrick’s cheeks paint themselves red from white, a cunning reference to literature close to Pete’s heart, and it seems like a match made in Heaven. Patrick fumbles over a “thank you, I love you”, and Pete’s face seems swallowed by his Cheshire grin.

The mall is ridiculously sized, and Patrick wishes he had an “eat me, drink me” platter, because he’s in Wonderland. Pete clutches his hand as the boys drift away to head towards Starbucks with the money they’d been given to _buy whatever, but no alcohol under any circumstances, young man_. He can practically feel his eyeballs rolling around in their sockets as the cameras blind him from angles he didn’t know were possible to shoot from, but Pete seems completely unbothered, which just makes Patrick feel even more confused, and he falls to the tile floor with a thud. His prince charming reaches out a hand to pull Patrick back next to him, and _it’s okay now, it’s fine, I love you_. 

They ask Patrick’s name, where he’s from, what he does for a living, if he’s being paid to do this, if he’s being kidnapped, _everything_ , and he can’t help but feel like his privacy is being invaded. Pete speaks up for him.

“His name is Patrick, he’s from Chicago, he’s a stay-at-home dad with the voice of an angel, and I’m not paying him to do _shit_. He just has bad taste,” Pete nonchalantly jokes, a made-for-TV smile plastered onto him as he injects fake charisma into his own veins. Patrick’s never seen this side of him, and he doesn’t know if he likes it.

“And is _Ashlee_ okay with you being—?” A microphone smacks Patrick’s glasses as it digs its path between them, separating the couple. Patrick feels sick.

Pete pauses and laughs. “Just call me a faggot, Janet, it’s alright.” Patrick doesn’t see how anyone would be okay with that kind of terminology, but he digresses. “And, uh, I don’t see how my ex-wife’s opinion on my current relationship is relevant at all, but yeah. She— She’s cool with it,” he rambles, leaving no shortage of “uh”s, “and”s, and “er”s in his wake.

Patrick needs air, he needs it, Pete is his air right now, he grabs his boyfriend by the shirt involuntary and dives into him with a kiss, nose brushing ever-so-slightly against his partner’s. Heterosexual paparazzi and music bloggers beware, Pete and Patrick are here and they’re not joking around. Patrick moans quietly against Pete as his beloved pulls at his hair, an effective deterrent against the cameras as one or two shots are captured and the crowds disperse.

“I love you so much,” Pete breathes, pulling away slowly.

Patrick’s bottom lip quivers. “Even if I get nervous around cameras?”

Pete pulls down the brim of Patrick’s hat reassuringly. “No matter what, you handsome devil,” he muses, tugging at his boyfriend’s hand as they venture slowly but surely back to Starbucks.

The nostalgia is unbelievable. Patrick buys Pete a mango-dragon-berry refresher with a smile. “For you, Lewis,” he snickers, and the table bursts into laughter. Patrick feels alive. He feels like a lit candle, something that’s been sitting dormant for so long and is finally brought to its full potential. Pete brings that out in him.

They all sip happily and exchange stories the entire way home.

———————

Once home, it’s a little bit past 10 o’ clock, and Patrick pushes Pete against the mattress. “Kids are asleep,” he growls, baring teeth in a wide smile as he presses on Pete’s thigh, giving his boyfriend a slight squeeze.

A low moan is emitted from underneath Patrick’s touch— Pete reaches up for Patrick and grabs fistfuls of hair as the blonde grinds his hips against Pete’s. “That’s my baby,” Pete whispers, dragging his fingernails over Patrick’s cheek, savoring the noises that come out as a result.

Patrick hoists himself onto Pete’s lap and gifts him with the filthiest goddamn hip swivel known to man, all the while thrusting into his beloved, biting his fingers, getting every little taste possible.

Pete’s phone vibrates like hell against the bedside table, and he grabs it swiftly, smoothly interrupting Patrick’s long-rehearsed routine for whoever this happened to be. Needless to say, Patrick was pissed, but never mind what he thinks.

Pete listens to the call, mumbles a few “okay”s, and hangs up somberly. He kicks his legs free from Patrick and walks out of the bedroom without explanation.

Patrick grits his teeth, because _how dare he?_ He waits by the bedroom door for Pete to return. He’d always come back for his shoes, right? He wouldn’t be able to leave then. Patrick blocked the doorway, but Pete pushed past him. “What is your fucking problem, dude? I tried to make this a good night and you’re pulling this bullshit?” Patrick huffed, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

Pete roughly shoved Patrick aside, accidentally smacking the younger man in the face with the back of his hand. “It’s Ashlee, you _dick_ ,” he hissed, “she’s fucking taking my kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m so sorry


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete and Patrick don't know what's real anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's so short! just a quick one to get me back into the vibe for it, promise next one will be 6000+

“You stole my son,” Pete insists, pushing Patrick to the wall. “You’re the reason he’s fucking gone. They took him from me!”

Patrick can’t do anything but smile. He is in stage four of shock. His demons freeze his muscles, they glue his bones in place. Joints are useless, tendons disconnect. Patrick is a motionless doll, a slave to Pete’s wishes. He can’t do anything himself anymore. Everything is under Pete’s control from here on out. “I didn’t. I did nothing, Pete. Not my fault,” he babbles, mouth moving too fast for his voice to keep up. The words tumble out like blocks in a toy chest, and god, Patrick can’t stop making childhood metaphors.  It seems to serve as a tragic irony in this situation, a harmless form of figurative language turned lethal weapon in the hands of someone who made a mistake .

Pete chuckles. “Yeah, you‘re right. That’s right. You didn't do anything, did you? He was being taken, and you didn't do shit!” He has stabbed Patrick in the heart.

“I didn’t,” Patrick repeats, as if this will bring Bronx back. Arguing won’t fix any of this. “I didn’t, I swear,” he tries, grasping at straws. He is running out of options, and Pete may never talk to him again. Pete Wentz is one person he never expected to be begging to listen to him. To forgive him. “I didn’t know about her rules, Pete. I didn’t think she was--“ He doesn’t say it. It’s taboo now, ever since it happened. A lot of things have changed though. Declan doesn’t speak. Neither does Patrick, exceptions being when he stumbles over his half-assed apologies. There are no more goodnight kisses, no more strip-teases when the kids are fast asleep. They’ve lost their luster. It seems as if everything Patrick touches dies.

“Patrick.”

His head jolts to position. Pete’s words are the string attached to the tip of his hat. He is a marionette, pale and rosy-cheeked. He doesn’t have a right to make his own decisions anymore. It was his fault.

Patrick didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he first met Lewis,

He wasn’t sure of what he was doing when he first kissed Pete.

Now, he’s sure he wants to disappear.

Ashlee has guardianship of Bronx. She has had custody of him ever since Pete and Patrick’s relationship moved into the public eye. In simpler terms, Pete has not seen his son in three months. Patrick can’t help but feel grateful it’s not happening to him, but who would want this to happen to them?  A child is a sacred creature, created only from the love of two people who think they’re ready to bring someone else into the world . A mix of genes, a scientific wonder. Pete has had his taken. He is angry. Patrick understands. He wishes it wasn’t directed at him. If there was anything he could do about it, he’d do it and Pete knows that. That’s why it hurts so much right now. The trust has  been broken . Can he still call him his boyfriend? Are they still in love?

It shouldn’t matter. Bronx is the priority. Getting Bronx back is the main goal.

But what if they can’t?

Pete should know Patrick would do anything for him, and he would do anything for Bronx. But Pete’s in a state of shock, and Patrick doesn’t know if his boyfriend trusts him anymore.

Will he never see Pete again?

Will Patrick  be known forever as the one who broke Pete Wentz’s heart and got his son taken from him?

Is he a monster?

Patrick purses his lips and shakes himself free from Pete’s grip. “I will bring your son back, Pete. I will get Bronx back to you, or I’m going to die trying,” he declares, pulling the brim of his hat down as he lets himself out. More than anything, he’s been dying to get out of that house.  Formerly a haven for their family, a beacon of hope in this cruel world, it seemed to now be a sign that nothing was right anymore .

Declan is at school, and Patrick is glad for once. He doesn’t want his son to see him like this. He retrieves a pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment of his car, and lights one in hesitation. It looks as if all his troubles  are relieved . To tell the truth, he hasn’t done this in years. He hasn’t had to, not since she left them. It seems as if now is a fitting enough time if any, so he might as well. What’s the point of preserving your lungs if you’re the world’s worst father? Checkmate.

He takes a drag, offering cruel glares to the people who pass by. His misery isn’t a roadside attraction. They can move along.

Patrick makes a call, holding his cigarette between his pointer and middle fingers.  The woman on the phone puts him on hold, and he swears at her with language he wouldn’t ever use if these were different circumstances . But he’s a man who’s lost love too many times to lose it again. Patrick is not giving up on this, regardless of how rage-inducing it may be. Even if he gets put on hold, it will not deter him. Patrick will help Pete. He doesn't care if he wouldn't do the same. Patrick's a city boy, working jobs to afford dinner and struggling to raise a healthy son. Pete's a billionaire. He can pay for anything. If he wanted, he could have his son back with a snap of his fingers, no problem. Patrick guesses he's lazy.


End file.
